


Delicacy

by Clair de Lune (clair_de_lune)



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Community: rounds of kink, Incest, Kink, M/M, Pre-Series, Season/Series 02, Sibling Incest, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-10
Updated: 2012-11-10
Packaged: 2017-11-18 09:18:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/559357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clair_de_lune/pseuds/Clair%20de%20Lune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’ve never made a habit of it because it had to remain a delicacy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Delicacy

_It’s happened every now and then. By chance or decision. A couple of times out of anger, which Lincoln really regrets, by the way. They’ve never made a habit of it because it had to remain a delicacy – a playful romp, a warped treat, a delectable punishment._

* * *

The first time, it’s because Michael has forgotten to pack his sleeping bag. Has allegedly forgotten to pack it. It’s not like Michael, who makes lists and double checks them, is actually likely to forget something as essential as his sleeping bag when going on a camping trip.

Anyway. They don’t realize the thing isn’t in the car until after they’ve lit up and secured a campfire and set up everything for the weekend in the middle of the goddamned forest. It’s quiet and remote, with a small river running a few yards away and, according to Lincoln’s experiences at least, not too much wild life. It’s the perfect place, except for the fact that his brother has forgotten his fucking sleeping bag and that the nights are still fucking chilly.

In playful retaliation, Lincoln tugs him down, pushes him across his lap and swats his butt. A quick, smart smack on his buttocks. Michael makes an indignant noise, protests, “What’s wrong with you?! Let me go,” and struggles to escape him and get to his feet. All of it just has Lincoln chuckle and secure his hold. He’s sitting on a large stone, with all the leverage he may need, Michael in an unsteady balance across his thighs, ass poking in the air, feet kicking the dirt and hands frantically trying to find a purchase. Fat chance Lincoln will release him. It’s too much fun watching him squirm and imagining his face pinched in annoyance. He’s not hurting him anyway; it’s just light slaps, the heavy fabric of the jeans preventing any actual sting. If it wasn’t a game, embarrassment and humiliation would be more painful than anything else.

And it is a game. At least, it is until Lincoln feels something, hard, hot and swelling against his thigh, and realizes that Michael stopped fighting back a couple of minutes ago. His baby brother is still unsteadily balanced over his lap, but he’s not moving anymore. The toes of his heavy shoes dig into the ground, his hands grip leaves and dirt and Lincoln’s leg, his groin is tightly pressed into Lincoln’s muscles and...

“You like this,” Lincoln blurts out, dumbfounded.

There is a long, awkward silence, as the statement reaches Michael’s brain, as the thought sinks in and Michael takes in what’s going on.

“No, I don’t,” he lies with a hoarse voice.

Lincoln lets him go and Michael collapses on the ground between his knees. He looks up, gazing at him with shiny eyes, the blue almost totally eaten up by the black pupils. His lips are moist and slightly parted, obviously waiting, hoping for something. With a smirk, Lincoln leans down and when he speaks, their mouths brush each other’s with each word. There is a tiny groan; one Lincoln isn’t sure which of them uttered.

“I should let you sleep on the ground.”

“Maybe you should.”

But he won’t, evidently. He welcomes him into the sleeping bag, zips it around them and lets Michael snuggle up into him. His fingers creep under the waistband of the sweatpants his brother slipped on for the night, and he grabs his buttocks. He squeezes them firmly, reveling in the succulent, elastic flesh filling his hands, and Michael sighs in pleasure. When Lincoln kisses him, he mumbles into his mouth, almost breathless, “I lied. Earlier. I liked it.”

“I know.” He pushes everything out of the way, sweats, pants and boxer briefs, and rolls Michael on top of him, spreading his legs to engulf him. Michael doesn’t waste any time; he seems to melt and become liquid warmth as he shifts and grinds down, rubbing his erection on Lincoln’s hip, humping it slowly and lazily. Linc watches him the whole time, fascinated and amused all at once by the look of bliss on his face, more aroused than he’d want to admit. It’s becoming incredible hot in the damn shared sleeping bag, hotter even when Michael breathes out, “Do it again.” Lincoln dithers for a few seconds, not sure he got it right, not sure he wants to go there, but Michael opens his eyes, looks right at him and asks again.

He complies, both of them jolting slightly at the smacking thud that comes with the first touch. No rough jeans anymore to soften the blows, it’s skin on skin now and, even though Lincoln won’t hit hard, the sound is unmistakable. The erratic swats elicit desperate thrusts of hips, pants and moans, Lincoln whispering threats of bare ass spanking – real spanking, not nice slapping butt thing – if Michael ever forgets his sleeping bag again. He gasps and rubs harder, almost feverish at the promise, and ultimately there is slick, sticky heat dribbling down Lincoln’s stomach. Ecstatic, Michael kisses him so dirtily that Lincoln would blush if he cared. Instead, he opens his mouth and welcomes tongue and saliva.

Painfully hard, his teeth gritted, he gathers Michael in his arms and rocks him gently, waiting for his breathing to calm down. When his brother finally glances at him with hooded eyes, he grins and teases, “So you do like that.”

“Looks like you do too,” Michael shoots back, a hand bluntly palming Lincoln’s groin.

He starts to wriggle down and Lincoln wants to tell him that the sleeping bag is too small for this kind of stunt, but when he manages to come up with the actual words, Michael’s mouth is already descending on him, erasing any coherent thought.

* * *

It’s a treat for his birthday. Some people like being treated with chocolate cake or a massage, champagne or a nice wine on such occasions. Michael likes being treated with a spanking session, as long as Lincoln is the one who delivers it. He had the nice wine anyway – the cork is still in his hand, and he squeezes it hard because he needs that to hold himself together – and to be perfectly honest, it did start with a massage. It’s just that the massage toughened up.

Only his hands. Lincoln could use something, anything from a book to a paddle, but Michael prefers direct contact. Lincoln has to admit, he likes feeling the skin slowly warming up and seeing the imprints of his hands on Michael’s flesh. At first, it’s merely a rosy flush spreading across the pale skin as he pats and flatters the pert, firm muscles. It may last a while. Michael is always impatient to take things further and Lincoln enjoys stretching out this phase just to play on his eagerness.

Tonight too Michael’s impatient, alluringly wriggling his butt at Lincoln so his brother hurries up. He’s lying on his stomach across the bed, totally naked when Lincoln is fully clothed, his hands neatly tucked under the pillows, a soft cushion conveniently stuffed under his hips. The position makes his ass poke in the air, offered and vulnerable, and Lincoln licks his lips at the image, at the display of lean, well-defined muscles smoothly rolling under soft skin as Michael shifts on the bed.

The first real slap is always the hardest to give. Too much thinking and Lincoln will hesitate forever about how fierce and where exactly to slap and at what moment. So he doesn’t think at all, just lets his hand drop – hard – and jolts in synch with Michael. Michael jolts because of the stinging blow on his right buttock, Lincoln because of the slapping sensation on the palm of his hand, and both of them because of the loud smacking sound. A clear, perfect impression of his hand and fingers reddens on the pale skin, and Michael throws him a hot, lingering look over his shoulder.

It spurs him, the deep thud, the provocative glance, the trace of his hand marking Michael, and he hits again. And again and again and... Regularly first, even, moderate slaps on each buttock in turn. Randomly after a while because Michael is bracing himself against the blows, rubbing his hard-on into the cushion under his belly as each stroke pushes him down. It’s not part of the game; it actually defeats its purpose. He shouldn’t be in charge. So Lincoln varies the strength and rhythm of his smacking, and watches his brother press his face against the pillow, listens to him moaning partly in abandon and partly in delicious pain. Michael bites his lips, struggling not to beg him to stop because then, Lincoln will stop and Michael doesn’t actually wants this to happen. Not right now, not so soon.

It’s noisy. Because of the spanking itself, but also because Michael groans and gasps under each blow, pants when Lincoln pauses, whines when the hand tenderly caresses him, fingers teasingly sliding between his buttocks. He’s brashly letting him know how much he appreciates Lincoln’s ministrations. Lincoln’s not sure what gets to him the most. He’s never been able to tell whether it’s seeing Michael so undone, how he vocalizes his pain-pleasure in the most wanton way, the power trip... It doesn’t matter. It does get to him and make him hard, and right now, his jeans are excruciatingly restraining his cock.

“Don’t you dare coming already,” Lincoln grouses as Michael’s pleas and whimpers are becoming lewder. He leans down and places an arm across his shoulders to hold him down while his free hand keeps on slapping and stroking without mercy. In response, Michael rocks his hips in frenzy, thrusting up and down, grinding into the cushion. He’s panting, a thin thread of saliva escaping from his parted lips and running down his chin and onto the pillow.

“Please, Linc. Now...”

With a grin, Lincoln releases him and lies on his side right next to him. He opens his pants just enough to free himself. Michael is quick to take the hint. He rolls onto his side for better access and faces his brother. The whole length of his body pressed against Linc’s, he closes his fist around their cocks in an eager grip to jerk both of them, rough and fast. Black wool and jeans scratch bare oversensitive skin and, even though Lincoln longs for a skin to skin contact, he can’t help thinking how deliciously wrong this is.

Michael is blabbering now, nonsense swallowed by Lincoln’s kiss, a soft kiss, in stark contrast with everything else that’s happened tonight. Lincoln tenderly cradles the back of his head and licks his mouth, his chin, his neck, nodding knowingly when Michael asks, “Just one more...” He reaches around and carefully aims for the underside of his ass, just at the point where it meets the back of his thigh.

It’s their downfall, that carefully applied swat. Michael comes with one last thump on his butt, burning and perfectly delivered, his orgasm triggering Lincoln’s. When they’re done, there is saliva, sweat and semen on Lincoln’s black clothes. He couldn’t care less – scratch that, he basks into the mess. He opens his mouth beneath Michael’s, cups Michael’s red, sore ass and caress it compassionately.

* * *

And then, there is one time when the slaps Lincoln delivers are nothing soft, tender or, in a peculiar way, considerate. They aren’t for their pleasure, they’re meant as a punishment to Michael. What’s happened a few times and was until now consensual and playful morphed into something else entirely because of Lincoln’s anger and resentment. His accusations of haughtiness and arrogance have been answered by disdain and reproaches of unreliability, Michael setting his jaw as though he was preparing for Lincoln to punch him. Which didn’t happen because honestly, Michael doesn’t deserve to be punched in the face, he just deserves to be handled like the smug little brat he is.

This is the reason why Lincoln bends him over the sink of his preposterous bathroom, tugs his pants and boxers down and gives the first blow on his bare ass. It’s followed by quite a number of other blows. No holds barred, no words, no complicity. It’s a battle of wills, a hideous jest of their usual connivance. Their eyes meet in the mirror in front of them, and Lincoln notices that Michael’s are glistening with withheld tears. Despite the two red spots on his cheekbones, he’s livid because of pain and anger and he bites his lips, but he won’t say anything. Lincoln knows it. He won’t say anything, won’t beg or order him to stop, or even try to push him away. Michael just doesn’t do that; he bends but doesn’t break. Lincoln isn’t sure if it makes him strong or just stupid. Either way, it’s maddening especially when Lincoln is that furious and high – he had too much of whatever he took, he knows that, and chances are Michael knows it too.

His arm and hand hurt. From the appearance of Michael’s ass, bright red and throbbing, from the way he grits his teeth and clutches the sink, so hard his knuckles are white, Michael’s probably hurting too. It shouldn’t turn Linc on. Even worse, it shouldn’t turn Michael on, the smacking sounds, the hot burning skin, the abused muscles and the overall pain. Yet when Lincoln glances down in the mirror, he catches a glimpse of Michael’s cock, leaking and bobbing against his stomach. Lincoln wonders how the fuck he can get hard under such circumstances, if he actually enjoys it on some level or if it’s a kind of twisted automatic response.

Well, if he takes it like that, if this is what he wants...

The skin of his backside is so hot and inflamed Lincoln can feel the heat, the slight swelling against his thighs and lower stomach as he eases his way into him. Michael tilts his hips to give him better access but still doesn’t say anything. Not a plea, not a threat, not a groan. Lincoln fucks him the way he spanked him, hard and punitive, holding his gaze through the mirror. It’s only when both of them have come – Lincoln inside of Michael, Michael soiling the mirror in front of him – that he collapses against his back, almost crushing him against the sink, and realizes how far he took things. He tastes and smells sweat, the flavor familiar and comforting, and rests his forehead on Michael’s shoulder. He murmurs indistinct apologies against his neck, eventually letting drop the “I’m sorry,” he’s had to say more often than he’d like to.

For the first time in about thirty minutes, Michael offers some resistance, pushing him back a little bit so he can turn around in the circle of his arms. He winces when the porcelain of the sink, still warm from his grip, presses into his butt but he doesn’t try to move any more. The mirror behind him reflects in minute details the consequences of Lincoln’s mistreatment – blossoming bruises and red welts, faint traces of lube and come. Now he’s sobered, Linc feels his stomach tighten, and he repeats, his tone even more heartfelt than the first time around, “I’m sorry.”

He thinks of the first time this kind of thing happened, how light and affectionate it was, and wonders how they got from there to here.

“It’s okay,” Michael answers and then, smirking ruefully, adds, “There is Penaten cream in the cabinet. You can make it up to me.”

* * *

 _Now, this isn’t a story Lincoln will tell or even acknowledge, but Michael eventually got to retaliate. A few days after they escaped. In a deserted barn somewhere in Colorado. On an old blanket thrown on dried hay. One strike on each buttock for each year Lincoln lied to Michael about the money he had borrowed to pay his way through college. Followed by one open mouth kiss or one luscious sweep of tongue on the aforementioned buttocks because Michael was just too relieved that they were alive and free to actually enforce a real, although justified, punishment on him. So he compromised and settled for this solution. Lincoln would like to say that he didn’t like it, but he did and that’s partly why he won’t tell that story: his dignity won’t allow him to admit that he enjoyed being spanked, and spanked hard and long, by his baby brother. Then unceremoniously rolled onto his back – for the record, scratchy wool blanket on heated, sensitive ass skin, hurts_ like hell _– and ridden into completion, his orgasm nicely, weirdly enhanced by the mixture of burning pain (and jeez, Michael could have been a bit easier on him; Linc sure was the first time they did this kind of thing) and blinding pleasure._

_For the way he made him grunt and pant, writhe and thrash, beg and come, Michael definitely deserves to be spanked._

END


End file.
